


Grendel

by Synchron



Series: Punchy's Bizarre Adventures [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abandonment, Gen, Introspection, Not Really Character Death, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22879723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: An introspective piece revolving around the long, long life of a demon, how Beowulf left him behind, how he wound up as a glorified trophy......and how he meets Punchy.
Series: Punchy's Bizarre Adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644661
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Grendel

**Author's Note:**

> The last of all the works I'm moving here from AO3...! Grendel is the name of Punchy's Devil Arm, named so because he's closely related to Beowulf from DMC3. 😌💖

When humans think of demons, they think of nothing but tooth and claw. Of blood and bone. Of pain and death and destruction and fear. The mindless instinct. The savage behaviour. The rampaging tempers.  
  
Never the precarious hierarchy that every demon obeys without question.  
  
Never the careful and meticulous study of the human world, and its unstable atmosphere and far too thin air.  
  
Never the constant and calculated vigil for the perfect time to breach.  
  
And most certainly never the bonds...  
  
Grendel remembers those days fondly. He remembers the cold wind in his mane, and a miasma so thick and dense, one needed only a brief whiff of it ignite and invigorate one's senses. He remembers the soft squelch of the organic ground under his feet, and the everlasting, omnipresent drum of the Underworld's heart - Mundus' heart - audible no matter how far from the Qliphoth one was.  
  
He remembers quiet conversations with Beowulf, of matters large and small. Though brothers by oath instead of blood, they were inseparable by nature, yet comparable in their strength. Had Mundus not been the one to ascend the Qliphoth with Sparda and reached that blessed fruit first, Grendel was certain that he and Beowulf would have ruled the Underworld in their stead.  
  
But who between them would have been the one to sample the fruit's warm flesh?  
  
Who would have yielded?  
  
Grendel doesn't think about that.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
When demons think of humans, they think of small, frail creatures. Trembling and so afraid. So soft and malleable and easy to rend. To tear. To consume.  
  
Never their adaptability, that insurmountable will to survive that dictates ahead of their own conscious knowledge what they should do to prolong their short lives.  
  
Never their sheer numbers, so vast and overwhelming in the blink of an eye.  
  
And most certainly never their cunning and ability to plot and bait.  
  
It was a trap.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Their ropes were imbued with something. A magic, or perhaps a curse. Whatever it was, it made them heavy and scalding to the touch, singing feathers and cauterizing wounds the very moment they were made. The smell of something burning filled the air, far too organic in its origin to be coming from the torches the humans carried - it was the smell of cooking, sizzling flesh. Everytime he struggled, the ropes tightened and pulled, binding his limbs and twisting his wings until their bones crunched and crumbled and collapsed. Whatever thunder he summoned to rain down on his foes was absorbed by their bolas and redirected back into his body in a way he'd never felt before. Where the ropes singed at his outer flesh, burned his feathers, and melted his scales, his own thunder charred his innards with a fury that was not meant for him.   
  
"Wulf!!" Even his voice comes rasped and hoarse. He struggles again. Lashes out with one clawed foot and opens the gut of a complacent hunter before the bolas constricts him again. He knows Beowulf is somewhere nearby. They'd come to the human world together to hunt them for sport.  
  
So where?  
  
Where?  
  
_ Where _ is his brother?!  
  
Somewhere off to the side, hidden under the canopy of trees, Grendel hears something move. Something big. The trees crack and sway as they make way for a lithe, but still far too large body slipping between them. It pauses right on the edge of the clearing, watches from the safety of the darkness that the trees provide. It contemplates. Deliberates. And so do the hunters that stand around Grendel's prone form. The wind stills, and the standoff continues. But even without the breeze to carry his scent, Grendel knows that Beowulf has come. Such is the bond of blood brothers! There is nothing they cannot overcome together!  
  
"Wulf!" Though feeble, Grendel manages to twist his body, forcing his legs underneath himself, ready to rise once more as soon as his brother makes short work of these humans, and releases him from his bonds.  
  
But with another great crack of splintering wood, the shadow in the trees shifts, turns…  
  
...and lopes away.  
  
Despair is not something that demons feel often. Many assume that demons are simply incapable of feeling, and perhaps that is true for lesser demons - Empusas, Cainas… even the Seven Hells - but for those with the will, the ambition to seek greater things, demons who understand there is more to existence than simply  _ being _ and  _ killing _ , they feel as any human does.  
  
It's a sinking feeling, chains that bind and restrain whatever passes for the heart in his chest. Grendel trembles not out of pain, but out of an uncontrollable sense of  _ fear _ , one that grows more prominent, wracks at his bound and broken body the further his brother runs from him. A stark cold washes over his body even though his blood runs so hot, but it doesn't shut him down - it's a final surge of electricity through his veins, a numbing adrenaline that has him tensing and stretching until something breaks, snaps and tears.  
  
And it isn't the bolas that binds him.  
  
Grendel doesn't feel the pain when he tears one of his own front paws off. Can't feel the bones cracking, or the meat ripping apart. Just the white hot sensation of his own blood pooling underneath him, and the bolas, that infernal rope finally falling free. The sounds of the human hunters around him are all but jumbled  _ sounds _ in Grendel's ears, lost to the sound of a hollow, empty noise that rings in his ears. He knows they are panicked, afraid again now that their quarry is loose, but they make no motion to give chase when Grendel struggles to his feet on shaking limbs. They say that a cornered rat will bite the cat, so what of a burned and bleeding three-legged lion? The hunters do not attempt to find out.  
  
The ground booms and roars under each heavy footfall of Grendel's stride, but it's a half-hearted, tepid thunder compared to the usual storm that accompanies his presence. It is uneven, erratic. One that stumbles and falters when he runs blindly into another trap. Uninjured, and at full strength, Beowulf was able to avoid them with ease, but Grendel cannot dodge the harpoons fired from the very cover he'd hoped to use to slip away. They puncture his already beaten flesh, piercing right to the bone with an impact forceful enough to knock him off balance. Reeling in pain as the barbs that adorn the spearheads pull and dig into his body, Grendel tries to reach out to anchor himself with a paw that is no longer there, but he treads nothing but air. A slow grinding of wooden gears permeates the air, and the winches that the harpoons are attached to immediately pull taut, anchoring him to the floor once more.  
  
The adrenaline fades, and the feeling, the  _ smell _ of burning flesh returns to him.  
  
That's all that Grendel remembers before he his vision blacks out and his body begins to collapse in on itself, condensing and hardening into an unfamiliar shape. There is no way for a demon to know what form it will take after transformation into a Devil Arm.  
  
At the very least, Grendel never thought he would see the day come.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Grendel watches from behind glass, only minutely aware of his surroundings. The images he gets are fuzzy and undefined. Mere outlines and vague shapes rather than what he's used to… or is it what he remembers…? He doesn't quite know how to describe it. Not that anybody would listen to him if he did. These humans do not deserve him. Not he, who commands lightning that rivals the King of the Cerberus. Not he, who was second in line to absorb the power of the Qliphoth's fruit. If only his brother wasn't such a coward. If only Beowulf had not abandoned him!!  
  
The glass cabinet his weaponised self is housed in cracks as a stray arc of lightning bounces from panel to panel, fuelled by a love that turned far too easily and far too quickly into a seething hatred. It shatters around him, startling the humans in the room. But rather than fearing him, what he'd become, they lamented the quality of the glass in their unclear, muffled voices. They clean up the glass, and a few days later, replace it.  
  
Time then simply marches on as if nothing had occurred.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Days go by. Weeks. Months. Years. It all becomes a blur to someone who can do nothing but watch it pass in silence. Nobody that he gets passed on to can utilise him - anybody who tries to is immediately fried out of spite, even if they  _ are _ worthy. But the banality of an idle life gives him time to reflect on his long life, and how dreadfully short that of a human's is, for possession of the great Grendel is changed many, many,  _ many _ times. First, it was the tribe of hunters who managed to defeat him. When their bloodline was eventually watered down into a mere fraction of the influence it once held, he was then sold to the highest bidder, and that was how it was for many, many,  _ many _ years after that. Money changed hands, and so did he, passed around as a glorified trophy to people who knew less and less about the tales of Beowulf and Grendel's ferocity.  
  
Beowulf…  
  
That name sounds so tepid now - a mere jumble of sounds that do nothing but garner impassivity. Although Grendel does nothing but observe and listen to the vague blobs that move about around him, even  _ that _ becomes a chore when the humans around him only care to surround themselves with superficial opulence. Being awake soon becomes exhausting.  
  
And eventually, Grendel stops thinking.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It's the sound of crackling fire and smell of burning flesh that finally,  _ finally _ rouses him from a slumber that spans centuries - a heat and an odour that is far too familiar to be comfortable, and suddenly, he can hear his own metal frame begin to rattle from a memory so distant and fuzzy and dream-like, that he has to wonder what the images mean, and why they flash before him in a series of images.  
  
Who is that lying on the floor, bound in cursed ropes?  
  
Who is that fool who tore his own leg off to delay his own death?  
  
Who is this "Wulf" that creature keeps calling to?  
  
The rattling of steel increases in its intensity as the fire continues to rage around him, bathing him in scents that invoke a sense of nostalgia so powerful that the air around him begins to fizzle and churn with a heavy static. As a dense miasma leaks from somewhere below him, as his vision begins to clear, and he can see the searing red and orange of the flames that dance around him with a clarity he had forgotten was even possible, he remembers.  
  
_ My name is Grendel.  
  
_ _ I was abandoned by Beowulf.  
  
_ _ Abandoned.  
  
_ _ Left.  
  
_ _ Alone.  
  
_ _ Pain.  
  
_ _ It hurts. It hurts.  
  
_ _ Beowulf. BeowulfBeowulfBeowulf  
  
_ _ B̶̛̖̳̲̬̲̣͠E̴̷͡҉͎̣̯͚̹̜̱̬̳̫̠͕̠̫͈ͅO̧̦̩͈͎̤̫̪͓͈̜̤̟͉̮͘W̶̢̡̟͍͕̜͍Ų̴̷̛̼͎̱̰̫̤̲̗̺͖̦̠͘ͅĻ̩̻̼̫̥͔̳̖̬͕̰͢ͅF̵̧͙̠̖͖̘.  
  
  
  
_ The static around him discharges, bursting the steel container he had been placed in for transport and his falls free, tumbling to the floor to lie at the feet of a woman. Yet she pays no attention to him, instead focusing all of her efforts, all of her attention on shifting a burning beam that blocks a passageway. Like a spark, Grendel's vision blooms in an array of vivid colours and shapes, the very notion of sight and hearing almost far too blinding, far too overwhelming for him to process so suddenly after countless centuries of dormant darkness. But what grounds him is that sickening stench of burning flesh.  
  
But it isn't his own flesh this time - the smell comes from the woman.  
  
The inside of her hands has gone beyond blistering, the skin almost melting away, and yet she continues to try to move the fallen beam, doused as it is in flames that burn much too hot. Grendel can hear indistinct voices from the room beyond, stifled by the roaring of the fires of the Underworld. Yet she does not give up, the grimace present on her face is one borne from exertion rather than pain - a desperation to succeed that keeps her rooted to the spot instead of fleeing.  
  
Despair was one of the last things Grendel felt before he could no longer  _ feel _ , and it is empathy that welcomes him back to a world of sentience. An empathy for those who are trapped. An empathy for this foolish woman who will not abandon the ones who seek help.  
  
And so, finding his voice after so many years, Grendel's booming timbre resonates inside the woman's head.  
  
_ "Do you wish to help them?" _


End file.
